


every night

by thecaryatid



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Modern AU, Nightmares, they both did therapy and now they can sort of communicate
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-09
Updated: 2020-06-09
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:13:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24631357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecaryatid/pseuds/thecaryatid
Summary: Sylvain has nightmares. Felix wants to help.
Relationships: Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 3
Kudos: 132





	every night

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cherryconke](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cherryconke/gifts).



Sylvain’s nightmares were never this obvious. He used to sleep still and silent, quiet as the ground, dead as the grave. It took a long time for Felix to notice them at all, a ragged unraveling of one more secret neither of them realized they were carrying, a tension tucked between Sylvain’s heart and spine. 

But last night Sylvain shifted in his sleep with obvious discomfort, fingers twitching in rhythmless fear, flinching legs visible even under the blankets. The working of his throat was obvious as his mouth fell slack, but he never made sound. Felix hovered over him, watching and debating the benefits of waking him up before curling closer and waiting until it stopped.

“You seemed distressed last night. In your sleep,” Felix said over breakfast the next morning. 

“Huh? Oh, don’t worry about it. You know how dreams are,” Sylvain said, shrugging it off. 

So Felix let it drop, but he worried. 

But twitches and flinches that occasionally woke Felix up from his habitually light sleep turned into loud gasping breaths, and hands clenched protectively to Sylvain’s chest, and sometimes even the tiniest whimpers of pain and fear. 

The next time he brings it up they’re strolling back from their favorite park, laden with fresh apples from a farmer’s stall and treats from the neighboring cafe, two shots of espresso poured over the darkest chocolate ice cream for Felix, a heaping glass of frothy blended vanilla and strawberry ice cream for Sylvain. 

“You were twitching in your sleep last night,” Felix says, hoping the fresh wind and bright sun would make the words easier to swallow, bolster Sylvain against the fear of admitting one more pain. 

“Was I? I must have been dreaming about you.” Sylvain nestles his arm around Felix’s waist, tugging them closer together. 

“You weren’t. I know what that feels like.” Those dreams are of an entirely different quality. Felix has never had a moment's hesitation in slowly waking Sylvain up from them, welcoming him from pleasant dreams to the even more delightful reality of Felix’s hands and mouth. 

The laughter of a family walking down to the park, children yelling excitedly about the new kite they’re going to fly drowns out Sylvain’s silence. Felix doesn’t rush him; it’s the sort of quiet he makes when he’s really thinking, mulling something over, balancing the scales of trust and fear. 

“I guess you do,” Sylvain says, quiet against the soft call of the wind.

“You make very particular noises in that sort of dream,” Felix leans easily into the arm around his waist. “It wasn’t that.” 

“I guess you _would_ know,” Sylvain says, frustration and melded amusement. “Fine. I get shitty nightmares. Everyone has bad dreams, right? Don’t tell me you never wake up and realize you were dreaming about your house burning down or whatever.” 

And it’s not like he’s _wrong_ , technically. Felix dreams; normal, everyday dreams of forgotten clothes and missed flights and natural disasters. Sometimes he even dreams of true things, car crashes and scars and the dark of a tomb. But it’s not so often these days, and not nearly as badly as Sylvain. 

“Yours are worse than that.” The line between _too pushy_ and _not pushy enough_ is hard to find, with Sylvain so terminally unused to talking about his own worries.

“They’re dreams. What does it matter if they’re worse?” Sylvain says. One look over his frown of consternation confirms that he _doesn’t_ think it matters, and Felix beats down the urge to burn every other branch of Sylvain’s family tree. 

“I don’t like seeing you distressed.” _You’re worth more than that, you shouldn’t have to deal with them, you should be able to relax in your sleep,_ he doesn’t say. He can convince Sylvain into that later, after they’ve crossed the bridge of _hey maybe the nightmares that make you sweat through the sheets and make little moans like someone’s ripping your ribcage apart are a problem_. It’s a work in progress, okay? “You should talk about them.” 

But Sylvan just shrugs easy and lets go of Felix’s waist to take a bite of his melting ice cream. “There’s really not that much to talk about.” 

Which means there _is_ something to talk about, because Sylvain can talk about anything, can spend a whole morning recounting fragmented details of nonsensical half-remembered dreams and entire nights mapping out one dream-remembered moan onto Felix’s skin. He can talk about anything, at any length, and he probably isn’t even doing this on _purpose_ , he’s just a dumb dense asshole who deflects concern like his stupid brain is wrapped in a foil reflector. A dumb, dense asshole who Felix would go to great lengths to keep happy and healthy and present, and who either intentionally or unintentionally is refusing to talk about this. 

He sighs. He leans into Sylvain’s side where they’ve come to a stop by the old observatory, the bushes lining the sidewalk buzzing with honeybees that hum in slow interest toward Sylvain's ice cream.

“Fine. Be stubborn,” Felix says, not at all resigned but willing to push things aside, enjoy this one perfect day, nudge Sylvain into unpicking his problems at some later date. 

“Hmm? Hey, try this.” Sylvain holds out one of the last spoonfuls of his melting strawberry shake. 

“I don’t like strawberry ice cream.” It’s pink and gooey, dripping slowly from the spoon to the ground where it will become a feast for the bees and the ants. 

“It’s made with fresh strawberries! You might like it. Come on, just one bite.” Sylvain pouts. He pouts unfairly pretty, unfairly careful and controlled and put together. 

Felix is about ninety percent sure Sylvain just wants an excuse to feed him something. He opens his mouth, grudgingly, and does not hide his grimace as the ice cream hits his tongue. It’s gross. 

“Gross,” he tells Sylvain. “I’m not eating any more of that.” 

Sylvain laughs, bright and delighted. He leans down for a kiss with his whole mouth still strawberry-sweet and laughs again when Felix sputters and pushes him away, grabs his hand and walks them both back to their apartment. 

* * *

Night brings another nightmare. It’s predictable. Felix doesn’t fucking know why he’s surprised, except that it’s been a while since Sylvain had them two nights in a row, or at least since Felix noticed Sylvain having them two nights in a row. 

It’s not as like they’re _loud_ , after all. Sylvain reacts to them with quiet twitches and soft, pained-sounded whimpers at the most, and often just goes rigid and silent. 

Felix hates it. He doesn’t have words for how much he hates watching Sylvain retreat to some panicked, unreachable place that only exists inside his head these days, fear-fueled and boxed in on every side. 

This time Sylvain is twitching and making fearful, gasping noises in the back of his throat, like he’s drowning. He’s shuddering in short, sharp shakes that pass from the tip of his nose all through his torso, not so hard that they're convulsions but far more pronounced than shivers. It looks painful; Felix grinds his teeth, clenches his jaw just watching, listening and pausing as his lover makes another of those tiny, frightened moans, biceps tensing, chest heaving. 

Sylvain didn’t want to talk about them; he wanted Felix to forget about them. But Felix - how can he just _ignore_ this? When Sylvain’s literally within arms reach, when he has every ability in the world to wake him up and crush him into a hug until Sylvain forgets whatever he’s dreaming about in the safe clutch of Felix’s arms, wrap his legs around Sylvain’s waist, kiss his stupid pouty mouth until he admits he isn’t okay, that the world inside his head is important and unavoidable and can be reached, that waking quaking in Felix’s arms is preferable to lying tense and unconscious and anguished. 

But Sylvain didn’t want to acknowledge them. 

Felix slips out of bed, steps out to their little bathroom, careless about turning the lights on and letting the water run as he washes his face. It’s no great tragedy if the light and noise wake Sylvain up. That would be too easy; Sylvain doesn’t wake up and Felix doesn’t reach any grand conclusions while staring at his own sharp eyes in the cloudy mirror. 

He tiptoes back to their spacious bed, set into a little low-ceilinged room in their apartment that's otherwise a space of lofty ceilings and inadequate insulation that leaves them layering plastic over the windows in winter and huddling in front of the little air condition in the summer. Tonight it’s mid-May; the only time of year when the weather doesn’t try to make them miserable, warm and bright for walks to the farmers market in the day, cool and dark for long evenings cuddling under the sheets, turning the heat down and sharing the warmth of their bodies.

So Felix has a very straightforward excuse for crawling into bed and pressing himself against Sylvain’s chest, running his hands through Sylvain’s hair, kissing him over and over in the slowest, gentlest, most soothing way he knows how. Sylvain’s hair is silk-soft under his hands, pampered with expensive conditioners and a who-knows-how-many-steps haircare regimen. His breath is still quick and frightened against Felix’s throat as he brushes his lips over Sylvain’s forehead like it could make him remember where he is and where he is not; his heart beats swift and so loud Felix can feel it where he’s pressed up against Sylvain’s chest.

It’s both a relief and not when Sylvain shifts, turning his face against Felix’s neck and half sitting up. 

“Sorry. I didn’t intend to wake you,” Felix says, both true and not. 

Sylvain groans, pressing his face into Felix’s chest, reaching out and gripping his sides with clumsy, sleep-ridden fingers. “Sort of seemed like you did, Fe,” he mumbles, slurred and quiet in the dark.

“Fine. Maybe I did.” It’s not like it’s less true than _I didn’t intend to wake you_. Felix doesn’t know what he intended, beyond offering whatever comfort he could. 

“You didn’t need to do that,” Sylvain says, but he’s blinking his tear-smudged eyes and shivering all down his spine, pressing into Felix like he’s shelter from the haunts of past and pain. 

He doesn’t sound angry, just tired and hurt and needing. Felix works his fingers back into Sylvain’s hair, pressing the pads of his fingers into his scalp. He shifts his hands down to rub at the back of Sylvain’s neck, his shoulders, his chest; and Sylvain sits, leaning up against every touch even as he’s half slumped over against Felix, expression blank and open. 

“You sounded like you were drowning or something,” Felix says, driving his knuckles into a particularly bad knot under one shoulderblade. Sylvain hisses in soft - he always loved a good massage, the harsher the better. 

“Is that what I sounded like? You still don’t have to worry about me.” Sylvain groans as Felix presses his fingers into the nape of his neck. 

“Fine. I don’t have to worry about you. Do I have to sit here and watch you shudder like you’re freezing to death? Listen to you gasp like you’re stabbed?” Felix’s voice shakes, drops of hurt spilling into it despite how he tries to keep it careful and even.

“Felix?” Sylvain’s looking up, wounded and raw, cupping Felix’s face in his no-longer-trembling hands. “It’s okay, I’m okay, you don’t need to worry,” and that’s _wrong_ , that isn’t the _point._

“Stop pretending this isn’t a problem. You deserve to find peace in your dreams.” He drags them both down to the bed, bundling Sylvain up between the mattress and his insistent weight, the kisses he’s pressing into his shuddering skin. “Tell me if this helps. Please.”

It must be the _please_ that does it. Felix doesn’t ask for things, much. He certainly doesn’t ask politely. His _please_ s have to be dragged out of him with hours of teasing. So Sylvain makes a tiny, choked sound, the start of a sob that he immediately tries to hide and drags Felix closer, presses them so tight together that Felix can’t even move to leave more little kisses all over Sylvain’s chest. 

“It’s okay,” Felix says, letting himself be crushed breathless in Sylvain’s arms. “You’re okay now.” 

There’s no response, no casual deflection, no self-deprecating jokes, no blinding smile. It’s so hard to tell if that’s good or bad, promising or terrifying, something that Felix should encourage or try to coax Sylvain out of. He’s never had Sylvain’s gift for reading mood and tone; he’s never had Sylvain’s gift for knowing the best and worst things to say at any moment. 

But there’s no pulling back, no flinch in the tense muscles of Sylvain’s back as Felix squirms his arms out of the hold and presses his hands against Sylvain’s spine, holding and grounding, making himself as much of an object to be held and cuddled for comfort as his sharp-angled frame will allow. 

“Will you be able to sleep more?” Felix asks.

Sylvain doesn’t really answer. He does shrug in Felix’s grasp, shoulders shifting up against his arms, chest pressing down in one great sigh and inhale. 

Finally, “how can I have anything but sweet dreams when you’re right here, kitten?” 

“That was a weak line,” Felix says, relaxing at Sylvain’s gentle, habitual flirting, his soft chuckle when Felix scoffs at him. “Seriously. Can you go back to sleep?”

Sylvain shrugs again, expansive and resigned this time. “No idea. I don’t normally wake up from that sort of dream, you know,” the slightest hint of accusation pressed into the cracks of his voice before he leans in to take one perfect, gentle kiss. 

“Sylvain.” Felix works his hand into the red curls, disheveled and in disarray from half the night of innocent tossing and turning. “You’re safe. I will _murder_ anyone who hurts you. I’ll destroy them. I would protect you with my last breath, do you hear me?” 

Perhaps it’s too much. Too heavy, too earnest, too cloaked in absolute sincerity. How could it not be too much? He brushes his thumb over Sylvain’s cheekbone like he can wipe away the harshness of his words, soften the edges of his love, blend everything into generic sweetness.

“You mean that, huh.” Sometimes Sylvain gets flat and unsmiling. It’s what he’s doing now, frowning with one corner of his mouth, looking down piercing and bleak like he can unravel all of Felix’s hidden meanings with one long stare. 

Not that Felix has many hidden meanings, just layers of yearning and concern packaged in ribbons of thorns. He holds his breath and stares straight up into Sylvain’s too-seeing eyes, direct and prism-brilliant and lance-piercing. 

“Since when do I lie?” Felix whispers back, once he can’t bear the weight of the gaze any longer, cutting into him casually as weight on a serrated knife. He wrenches his eyes away; rolls onto his back, right arm resting against Sylvain’s chest and right hand reaching down to twine itself with Sylvain’s fingers, staring up at the cracked plaster of the ceiling.

Sylvain’s sigh echoes through the empty air, counterpoint with the whisper of the breeze beyond their open window. He squeezes Felix’s hand. “Sleep. Right. Let’s go back to sleep.” Sylvain rolls onto his side, rests up on his elbow and bumps his nose against Felix’s before one last, lingering kiss. 

* * *

Mornings are inevitable. This one looks to be unseasonably warm for May, the sun rising far too early, peaking its stupid bright face into their window, spilling its stupid heat into their home. 

Felix wakes up first as usual, early enough to see the first beams of golden sunrise creep toward where Sylvain lies curled up, back to the window. It’s pretty; he could lie here and watch the light wake Sylvain up. He could kiss Sylvain warm and syrup-sluggish in the heat and then leave for his usual morning run. It’s a nice morning, early enough that the broad dirt path winding parallel to the edge of their neighborhood's tamed, curated forest won’t be overrun with other joggers yet.

Instead he tugs the heavy curtains closed before the light can make Sylvain twitch into waking. He sneaks his way out of bed and tiptoes his way to the other end of the apartment, stepping around the creaking floorboards.

Their kitchen is tiny and tucked away into one corner of the living room, all cramped countertops and noisy, low-end appliances. But their cheap refrigerator and cramped pantry are stocked solid with bacon and eggs, fresh fruit and heavy cream, four kinds of coffee and every other breakfast staple known to man. 

Usually Sylvain’s the cook. He makes breakfast while Felix is on his morning run and greets him with a perfectly-cooked platter of bacon and french toast, drags Felix into a hug and cajoles him into eating before his shower, cuddled up disgusting and sweaty on the couch. Sylvain is, to be honest, the better cook. He makes pancakes that even Felix likes, fluffy and light, seasoned with cinnamon and packed with tart cranberries instead of the more common blueberries or chocolate chips, served with the slightest drizzle of maple syrup. 

It’s fine. Sylvan’s better, but Felix’s cooking is not disastrous. His french toast isn’t perfectly crisped on the edges and melting-soft inside, but that’s fine. He scowls at the biggest frying pan as he removes it, careful to quiet the clatter, from the pile of nesting pots in the cupboard. _Perfection is the enemy of good_ , or whatever, like his therapist is always reminding him. 

So, equipment: frying pan, cutting board, bowls; mixing spoons and a sharp knife. Ingredients: flour, sugar, the little semisweet chocolate morsels Sylvain insists on buying from, yesterday’s purchase of fresh strawberries and apples, eggs and bacon. 

After half a look at Sylvain’s usual recipe for souffle pancakes Felix discards it for something simpler. It’s fine. He rests the pan on the burner, lays out strips of bacon to heat up, mixes his very basic pancake recipe and tosses scoops of chocolate-filled batter onto the griddle, chops up the fruit and rests it in one large bowl. It’s all too sweet for his taste; it’s fine. None of it comes out instagram-perfect as Sylvain’s meals always are, and that, too, is _fine_. 

So. Breakfast cooked, water for coffee heating up, and Sylvain lying alone in their bed. Felix pictures Sylvain’s involuntary twitching last night, the tight, gasping sounds he was making through gritted teeth, and grimaces against the icepick that stabs into his heart at the thought of him waking up alone. 

He tiptoes back over to the bedroom, freezing for a full five breaths when he steps on a floorboard that makes a particularly loud crack-creek sound, but Sylvain doesn’t stir. He’s still lying curled on his side, eyes closed and breathing deep. 

On the one hand Sylvain needs rest, especially after a few such interrupted nights. On the other hand breakfast is warm and ready. He looks so unguarded like this;' Felix settles down on the edge of the bed and brushes the curls that are already growing damp from humidity and sweat away from Sylvain’s forehead. He shifts in response, a tiny movement like even asleep he’s trying to lean closer to Felix. And how can Felix resist, really? He bends down and brushes his lips over Sylvain’s, barely a touch at all, before kissing him properly, deepening it by fractions of a degree. It’s unclear when Sylvain wakes up, but eventually Sylvain’s honeyed eyes blink open and he drags Felix down against the mattress.

Felix pulls back before that can turn into anything. Predictably, Sylvain pouts. 

“Come on, get back down here,” he says, looking incredibly pathetic for a broad-shouldered six-foot-something.

“No. Get up before breakfast gets cold,” Felix says, standing up and tugging at Sylvain’s hand.

Sylvain’s chuckle catches a few times in his throat, still thick with sleep, but he follows Felix to the kitchen and watches as he heaps plates with bacon and eggs and fruit, and three moderately-fluffy pancakes for Sylvain. 

“That looks _so_ good,” Sylvain says, draping himself over Felix to be as inconvenient as possible. “What’s the occasion? Don’t tell me I forgot about a birthday.” His breath is stale as he leans in to kiss all along Felix’s neck. 

“Do I need a reason to be nice to you?” 

Sylvain tilts his head in pretend consideration, smile teasing around his mouth. “Historically you’ve pretty much always had a reason for cooking for me, yeah.” 

“Eat,” Felix says instead of explaining himself, guiding Sylvain along to sit on the couch, carefully balancing their plates as he settles them down. Felix curls up next to Sylvain immediately, legs tucked under himself, leaning his head against Sylvain’s shoulder. It’s warm; it’s too warm, but god if he’s stopped wanting to touch Sylvain since the minute he realized he could. 

Sylvain lavishes praises on every bit of the breakfast, even though the pancakes are a little undercooked in the center and the toast is burned around the edges. He doesn’t stop until he’s licking the last of the maple syrup off his fork and turning to drag Felix into a kiss that gets intercepted by Felix’s hand.

“So,” Felix says, “your nightmares.” 

“See? Knew you didn’t cook for me without a reason,” Sylvain says, and then licks Felix’s palm. 

He ignores it. “You said you’d talk about them.” 

“Did I? But there are so many things I’d rather be doing.” Sylvain tilts Felix’s chin toward him with one gentle finger. It’s as distracting as it is tempting. 

“Later. Talk first.” 

Sylvain goes in for the kiss anyway, cradling Felix’s cheeks between his warm hands. It’s electric as ever, even with the lingering taste of maple syrup on his tongue, even with the knowledge that it’s nothing but an unsubtle distraction. Felix indulges in one more kiss before pushing Sylvain away.

“Talk,” he says, softer this time.

Sylvain pouts. “You’re really not gonna let me distract you?” 

“I am not.” 

“Fine, fine. So I get nightmares, okay? What do you want me to do about it?” Sylvain injects so much aggrieved exasperation into so few words.

“Not lying about them is a start.”

Sylvain winces. “ _Ouch_ , kitten.” He’s tense, smirking and shrugging like he does when he’s scared. This is clearly going nowhere. 

But Sylvain’s still right there, leaning in toward Felix despite his discomfort. So he drags himself forward and into Sylvain’s lap, melting in with his arms around Sylvain’s waist and his chin hooked over Sylvain’s shoulder. He doesn’t want to talk; fine, that can come later. Simple questions then, things that aren’t too hard to answer. 

“Can I wake you up from them?” 

“You don’t need to do that. They’re just little dreams, nothing worth worrying about, right?” 

Of _course_ this wouldn’t be easy. “That isn’t what I asked. You don't get to decide what’s worth worrying me. Can I wake you up from them?” 

Slowly, Sylvain reaches up to hug Felix back, cuddling him closer. Even slower he starts to talk, and stops, and starts again. “If you want to, you can. I always like waking up in your arms.”

“Would it _help_?” Felix can’t keep the snap out of his voice, but Sylvain just sighs out a laugh and kisses the edge of his jaw. 

“It’s hard to feel too scared when you’re lying next to me and looking at me like that.” He traces his fingertip over the lobe of Felix’s ear, down to the nape of his neck.

“Looking at you like what?” Felix is just looking, right? There’s nothing special about how he looks at Sylvain. 

“Like you’d stab anyone who wasn’t me,” Sylvain says. Which, well, perhaps there is something to that. But the dumbass, as usual, doesn’t know when to shut up. “But you need your sleep, getting up early all the time to go follow your stupid intense workout routine. It isn’t worth it.” 

“Sylvain.” Felix says it for emphasis. He winds his fingers through Sylvain’s hair - sweaty, disheveled, not washed yet today - and tugs, also for emphasis. “You’re worth it, asshole.” 

Sometimes Sylvain stops in the middle of conversations like these, pauses with a puzzled little frown as though Felix is arguing that two and two make five. Like _Sylvain isn't worth other people's effort_ is written in the paths of the stars, penciled next to light and force, carved between apex and nadir. 

At least he isn’t arguing back this time. Progress. Maybe those worksheets they’ve both been doing aren’t totally useless. 

“...I could be worth a little of your discomfort. Not all that much discomfort.” Sylvain’s voice is muffled where he’s buried his face in Felix’s shoulder.

“You’re still a fool.” Felix doesn’t say it unkindly, and by the tiny laugh that shakes Sylvain’s shoulders he doesn’t take it unkindly. His fool, pressed against Felix and breathing just a little shaky in the morning air, in their home of crooked floorboards and lofty ceilings.

He strokes Sylvain’s hair in time with his slowly evening breaths before taking a few steadying ones of his own. “And you’re worth more than a little discomfort.” 

“You’re totally hopeless,” Sylvain says before standing and holding Felix effortlessly up, supporting his ass and lower back. “That was so exhausting, kitten. You owe me, right?” 

Felix resigns himself to his fate, wrapping his legs around Sylvain’s waist. “What do I owe you, exactly.” 

“Something nice and relaxing after all that. Let’s start with a shower, yeah?” 

The shower is cramped and slippery, not nearly spacious enough for two. Their showers inevitably end in disaster. “You’ll sprain your knee again.” 

Sylvain kisses at Felix’s throat. “Nah. Dunno how I could do that when I’m planning on kneeling the whole time.” 

“You’re impossible. Fine.” Felix relaxes into it, allows himself to melt into Sylvain’s arms. “Anything you want.”   
  


**Author's Note:**

> i finally finished this! it's, uh, later than i meant it to be, sorry cherry
> 
> [i'm on twitter!](https://twitter.com/thecaryatid)


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